


Great Expectations

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Dates, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2020-03-02 05:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: A/N: Sorry about the long delay between updates my supremely patient fluffkins - this fic got lost amid my other WIPs and slipped my mind when I took a social media summer hiatus. We resume now without further delay!





	1. Part 1: It's a date, or is it?

In the peripheral blur of vision beyond the pages of the book resting open across your knee - a scarcely believable chronicle concerning vampiric vegetarianism in the New World you’re beginning to think exists as some sort of long-standing Men of Letters joke given the section on lesser known sources of non-mammalian life juices and how to ethically squeeze them to sustain yourself in lean times - you catch a swift moving seraph-sized bokeh of beige flit across the library threshold for a third time. 

“Cas” -peering up to vest your full attention into the curious-er matter of a celestial creeping ‘round corners, you call out questioningly toward the vacant space- “that you?”

He shuffles sideways into view; his booted feet slide in short strides along the landing in a manner which, from his trepidation of movement, suggests the surface there might be jellied and unstable and swallow him at any moment should he make a wrong move. Arms hung a little too stiffly where they hinge his broad shoulders, evidently in an angelically awkward effort to appear casual at being noticed, he greets you. “H-hello,” the airiness of the stammer sticks in the velvet grittiness of his throat, resulting in a reverential sigh-like wisp of your name escaping on the exhalation. 

Shimmers of golden lamp light warm his stoic regard such that you miss the subtle glow pinking his cheeks. “Hey there, yourself” -setting the book on the table, you pivot the chair to face him and lift a brow askance- “what’s up?”

He immediately looks up. He’s Cas, of course he looked up. Finding nothing save the ceiling, and in it’s usual state of solid ceiling-ness no less, his forehead furrows into a chasm of flesh.

A grin billows your features skyward. “I meant, what are you doing?”

“Oh.” He gulps hard, the swallow practically audible as his Adams apple climbs to his chin then plunges suddenly toward the knot of his tie; the silence as he wills mind, breath, and larynx to work in tandem to formulate a reply stretches on uncomfortably even by his standards. “Uh, I was looking for you.” He wrangles the words and manages to meet your eyes as he does so.

It doesn’t exactly explain his strange skulking; no matter, you stopped trying to understand seraphim social mores about thirty seconds into meeting him. You stifle a chuckle, sealing your amusement behind a glinting expression and teasing, “Well, here I am.”

“Yes,” he agrees. Averting his blues again upward, perhaps seeking more of an explanation somewhere on the high ceiling which remains utterly unchanged since his last look mere seconds ago, a bolstering breath of courage expands his vessel’s lungs. The seriousness creasing his brow softens to sincerity when he glances again at you. “I wanted to ask if you were hungry.” Confidence steadies the statement and his gaze, almost as if he’d had some practice at saying those precise words in that precise volume and cadence.

You stomach grumbles before you can speak to the affirmative. Since the civilized thing would be to orate an answer in English rather than continue to produce an ungodly sequence of squelching sounds and expect him to interpret them as a _yes_ , you lay a scolding hand upon your belly. “Starving!” you exclaim. It makes sense now, _sort of_ \- Sam or Dean must’ve goaded Cas into rounding you up for a dinner run. He must’ve been worried at intruding upon your personal time to make the inquiry which in turn explains his odd behavior.

“Then you’d like to, um, go to dinner?” he reiterates for clarification.

“Yep,” you reassure. “I assume we’re going now?”

“Yes, if that’s what you’d like, now is … _good_.” He repeats the affirmation to be sure, “Very good.” Relief lifts an invisible weight burdening the angel at the repetition. Standing up straighter, a rare smile widens to reveal the pearly enamel of his teeth and crinkles his eyes in such a way they shine joyfully bluer through the lashed slivers. “Now is _very_ good.” 

The gale of gladness blowing over him sweeps him from view, leaving you shouting after him, “Okay, I’ll just …uh” -standing, you gather your hoodie from the chair back and shrug into it- “get dressed and meet you guys in the garage in fifteen.” 

Not requiring the nourishment of food, Cas doesn’t usually get so enthusiastic about meal outings. You think, perhaps, he’s simply happy everyone is home after you spent several weeks apart. After all, family is important to him; and you, well you welcome any excuse to spend time with the angel, even if it means sharing the evening with the Winchesters, too.


	2. Never Touch Another Man's Toothbrush

If Castiel hears Dean’s unmistakable bow-legged gait as the hunter approaches, it fails to disrupt the angel from his perplexed meditation upon the rubbery pink glitter-inlaid toothbrush clutched in one fist, and a bone-handled straight razor, edge dangerously glinting and honed to a mirror sheen, cradled in the opposite palm. Various other discarded toiletry sundries swim around the drain of the sink, spilled haphazardly in haste from the usage-worn travel-sized leather sack lying crumpled over the faucet.  
  
Dean’s startled gasp, squeaking in a most unmanly and decidedly mouse-like manner on the intake, garners a curious glance from the contracted brow of the celestial being via the mirror. Judging by the strained sound, the last place the six-pack of beer and cold plate of pizza arm balancing act known as Dean Winchester expected to find his angelic ally on a Friday night was rifling through his personal manscaping articles at the modest-sized wall-mounted porcelain basin in his bedroom.  
  
Asked, he’d tell you on a typical Friday night, or _any_ night, or day for that matter – really any hypothetically proposed hour in question – the angel would likeliest be found in the library, or in whatever immediate or adjacently-eyelined vicinity of bunkerdom you happen to be holed up in, doing a piss poor job of pretending not to stare and a bang up job of being patently awkward about his romantic interest in you while simultaneously doing _abso-freakin-lutely_ nothing about it.  
  
Hunter senses tingling at the explicit change in routine, Dean’s gaze sweeps the corners of the room seeking evidence he’s on candid camera. He wonders if this is Sam’s payback prank for the charcoal in his toothpaste incident two weeks past; he can come up with no other logical reason for Cas to be screwing with his stuff.  
  
Revolving to face his friend, wielding the toothbrush and razor like weapons on a hygienic battleground, Cas offers his friend a gravelly greeting in lieu of an explanation. “Hello, Dean.” Obligatory nicety ticked off the to-do list, he returns his regard to the gadgets of grooming in his grip.  
  
Jaw ruminating on as yet unspoken words of question, Dean plops the plate and bottle with an unkindly lack of care on the surface of his dresser and stomps over to glare at the spillage of washing, scrubbing, and shaving instruments circling the sink. Gesturing at the mess, he manages to enunciate a diplomatic, “What. The. _Hell_?”  
  
Cas contemplates his answer, choosing the shortest most direct route to explain the crux of the current circumstance. “I have a date.”  
  
This does nothing to aid Dean in understanding why his deodorant should be involved unless the angel’s date happens to be with death itself.  
  
Intuiting Dean’s requirement for further elucidation, Cas adds, “In five minutes.”  
  
“And you thought-”

  
“I thought I should make an extra effort.”  
  
The ire shading Dean’s greens lightens in dawning realization that the date must be with _you_. The part of him not pondering murder – panged by his toothbrush’s involvement in whatever is going on – is proud Cas finally made a move.  
  
“Dean?” Cas squints between his stymied friend and the innocuous appearing toothbrush that seems to be a source of disproportionate pain given its use as an instrument of tartar control. Experimentally, he waves the toothy tool sideways, watching Dean’s gape follow. “Did you hear me?”  
  
Dean emits a stifled grunt that may or may not be acknowledgement.  
  
Cas continues, “Where do I start? What’s more important if” –the angel’s blues go anxiously wide in verbalizing his concern “–if we kiss … fresh breath, or smooth skin?”  
  
Dean blinks, numbly mumbles, “That’s my toothbrush,” rescues the item of his angst with a swift snatch from the seraph’s fingers, and conceals it behind his back for protection.  
  
“So” –left with the razor, Cas deduces “–I should shave?”  
  
With clarity that comes from a weighty concern lifted, Dean’s head wags. “No. _No_ , buddy.” He claps Cas roughly on the shoulder. “You should be yourself. Stubble, and all. Maybe lose the trench and tie though, ‘kay?” He grimaces, gnashing his jaw, for exaggerated effect. “Unless you plan to go door-to-door selling life insurance on your first date.” He jostles him again to drive the point deep into its intended ofttimes socially dense heavenly headspace.  
  
Cas peers down the plane of his torso and gives the free-flapping lapel of his coat a tentative tug. The tie he can easily do without – has done so before, even; the coat however, he never realized, serves as a shielding comfort and manifestation of himself. Sure, Jimmy put the garment on before he said _‘Yes,’_ all those years ago, but the angel kept it on, through multiple resurrections, through so much choice and searching for place and purpose that it’s woven indelibly into his identity. It’s not an attachment he has time to defend, so he doesn’t try to. “Thank you,” he murmurs, unable to mask the doubt deepening his tone. The pads of his fingers fondly flatten the fabric. He looks up, averts his eyes to lessen the lie. “I’ll try that.”

  
Ducking out of Dean’s reassuring grip, he steps sideways toward the center of the room, skirting him to make for the exit. Celestial and corporeal nerves firing on all cylinders, he feels no more prepared to meet you in the garage than he did five minutes prior.  
  
Dean is not so easily deceived; Castiel also isn’t a fantastic liar.  
  
“Hey, hang on.” Dean dives for the sink, scoops up a bottle of bright green mouthwash, and chucks it at the angel.  
  
Cas catches the bottle and cocks his chin askance at the hunter.  
  
“That should do the trick.” Dean winks, clicks his tongue, and aims a finger gun at the bottle.  
  
Without further inspection, fully trusting in Dean’s sagacity, the angel twists off the cap and downs the entire throat searing minty shebang in a single swallow. Love potion, emotional elixir, liquid courage, mild molecular explosion for the mouth, whatever it is, it sets the seraph’s lips into an indebted upturn of a smile.  
  
“Thank you, Dean,” he repeats his gratitude and means it this time. Tossing the drained bottle back to the hunter gawking in astonishment by the fiery feat of will required to _drink_ mouthwash, he disappears into the hall.


	3. Part 3: Roses are Red, Grace is Blue, Angels are Awkward, It’s Adorably True

Stooped and squinting into the polished chrome frame side view mirror of the Impala in the bunker’s expansive airplane hangar-like garage, Castiel scrutinizes the vessel-shell of himself in a hunt for last minute improvements he might make to the flesh and cloth façade tasked with containing an inner chaos of celestial anxiety and anticipatory excitement as he waits for you.

The tidal wave of tension puzzles him; he thought, in the wake of having finally asked you out and securing your agreement to go on said dinner date right there and then, to have reaped a reward of relief in unburdening an interest long plunging into the deeps of his heart a desire to share with you something more than friendship. 

Instead, his swan dive into the cheek-warming awkwardness-inducing stomach-churning waters of intimacy upped the emotional ante afflicting his angelic heart and simultaneously breached the levies – a deluged worry of disappointing you giving fresh fodder to his self-doubt - barely blockading his resolve from that ever intrusive all-inclusive fear of failure.

Unable to control the lurching ebb and flow of feelings, because in their sea-sick storm of newness he wouldn’t know where to find anchor aside from the imminent safe harbor of your company, he grabs at something he can control and tidies the blue silk knot of tie circumnavigating his neck. Swiping the pad of his left index finger across his tongue, he persuades with spit an upshot of hair rebelling from his scalp into rejoining the battalion of chestnut curls amassed at his temple.

Swallowing against the bundle of nerves constricting his throat seems so impossible a task on re-examination of his reflection he second guesses the tie, thinking perhaps Dean is right about ditching it; he hardly finishes loosening it when the pitter-patter of your approaching footsteps echoes in his ears.

He stuffs the length of silk sloppily into his coat pocket; the tail end protrudes still as his fingers fly upward to fret over and unfasten the top few buttons of a shirt also proving too taut for comfort in his nervousness. Just before you round the corner and climb the steps to the garage’s landing, he remembers the bouquet of roses set on the car’s roof and tucks them behind his back to surprise you. He steps forward to greet you with a broken gravelly, “Hello.”

“Hey, yourself,” you return the pleasantry - smile touching your face and tone - and, seeing no sign of Sam or Dean, peer around the space in brimming bewilderment. “Where are the boys?”

Your roving regard lands back on the angel. It’s not at all like Dean to be late for dinner. Usually he’s the one bellowing all your names, and some rather not nice nicknames, in voraciously loud lament for being kept waiting. While family may not end in blood in his book, it’s certainly burgers before bros, angels, and you.

“They’re not, uh-” he stammers. Self-consciously looking down at his feet, he finds no spare social surety of seraphim self in the matte leather shine of his boots. The realization that when you agreed to go to dinner it was not clear to you that tonight would be you and him alone sinks his already shaky confidence and knocks the wind out of the squared sail of his shoulders. He defaults to honesty to enlighten you of his intent. “I didn’t invite them.”

You watch the white-knuckled fist clasping a ribbon-wrapped and stunning bunch of crimson-petal topped stems topple to his side. Hanging from his coat sleeve, it sways, succumbing slowly to despondent stillness.

The overly odd furtiveness of his behavior earlier in the library when he inquired about your hunger and the romantic proof in the roses coalesce to smack your senses with a truth which should have been obvious from the start but seemed too remote a possibility to be true such that you did not imagine it could be so – Castiel had asked you on a date.

In the very same second you realize your happy error, he peers up, utterly crestfallen; the wonder if he was wrong clouds his countenance. As much as it pains him, he offers you an escape – an excuse to include the Winchesters if you want and release you from the discomfiting consequence of his blunder. “Should I have? I can ask them now.”

Your head wobbles to indicate _no_ \- no he shouldn’t have - well before your tongue is able to articulate an apology of sorts. “No … _no_ , not at all. I just-” you gravitate nearer, stumbling over your words and gesturing at the flowers- “I didn’t realize this was a date.”

“Then-” His Adam’s apple bobs hard; his brow arcs earnestly above questioning blue pools of uncertainty; never - not in front of the most fearsome of foes - has the heroic angel appeared more vulnerable in your eyes- “then you still want to go out? With me?”

“Yeah-” you breathe out his deliverance from doubt; the airy and sweet cadence sets his tension-tethered heart bounding double-time in triumphant song and dispels the shadow of darkness overhanging his demeanor- “ _yes_. Definitely a date. And I definitely want to go with you.” You pat a sweat-slick palm to your casually comfy corduroy jacket, abashedly becoming very much aware of the cool air caressing the hot skin covering your knees where the denim of your jeans is torn and also the fact he isn’t wearing his tie and through the gap of his shirt you see a dusting of dark hair adorning his chest you’ve glimpsed only once before when he was injured and have dreamed about a thousand times since. “It’s just I-I would have worn something nicer.”

Lifting the passionately gravid and giddily aromatic bouquet of red between your bodies, pushing the gift into your arms, a soft smile alighting first his eyes then his lips, Castiel forgets his nerves as his focus surrenders to that central, ever present, and pleasant ache in his heart living solely to promote your happiness. “You’re radiant as you are,” he reassures, inflection reverberating the decisive nature of his conviction.

“Thank you, Cas,” you mumble and conceal the broad stretch of your joy amid the honeyed petals. “They’re beautiful.”

The intensely fond gleam of his blue gaze suggests to you he feels the same sentiment of beauty holds true for your soul; those uncurtained glossy windows into his angelic nature, one seeming to nurture absolute faith in you, flutters ecstatically the organ caged within your ribs and rushes warmth through your veins.

“Shall we?” Indicating not his truck or any of the myriad of idly parked cars, but the bunker’s rooftop access door as your destination, he guides you thither by a gentle pressure of his palm placed upon your spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry about the long delay between updates my supremely patient fluffkins - this fic got lost amid my other WIPs and slipped my mind when I took a social media summer hiatus. We resume now without further delay!


	4. A Stairway to Heaven

_“Open your eyes.”_

Eager as you are to see the surprise Cas has in store for you on the bunker’s roof, your breath stutters when he lifts the warmth of his fingers away from where they loosely sheathed your sight. Replacing the dark shielding heat of his hands is a glow of gold against the thin skin shuttering your lashes – a gilded glow very much like that of a sun you know set hours ago.

Eyes flying wide as directed to seek out the source of that strange luminance, strings of tiny twinkling white bulbs crisscrossing the rooftop greet your awestruck vision. In the center, where the lines of light meet, a blanket spreads below; a picnic basket sits strewn to one side.

Suddenly feeling breathless and short on oxygen although you’ve been standing still, you sway backward at the onslaught of sweetness and into the sturdy pillar of the seraph’s frame.

He catches you; a gentle grip encircles your upper arms, easing your spine into the solid cushion of his chest to steady your balance.

“Cas, when-” you whisper, volume weighted in wonderment- “when did you have time to do all this?”

When he speaks, relieved the extent of his worried measures to make tonight special are enough to delight despite the misunderstandings of intent overcome to get here, whatever awkwardness he endured forgotten, the small smile of his satisfaction at your awestruck reaction hovers along the shell of your ear. “Nevermind that-” his rasping voice radiates outward from the spot, exciting pins and needles of pleasure in every nerve- “do you like it?”

You twist in his grasp, throw your arms around his nape, and murmur happily into the hollow of his neck, “I love it!”

Skimming and pressing his palms to return the fondness-fueled embrace, burying his scruffy chin at your shoulder, his blues close; the essence of his being endeavors to imprint the magic of this moment forever into a mind accustomed to only to the seeming certainties of doubt and disappointment.

The molten mingling of heat between your bodies, the way you melt into him as though puzzle pieces perfectly fashioned to fit one another, the subtle scent of lavender and something comelier than anything else in creation clinging to your hair, and the musical mayhem of the pulse reverberating through your ribs, is more succor than he imagined a fallen seraph might find in this world, let alone believe he deserved.

Yet, here you are, flesh and blood and vitality and - he dare not aspire too ardently because you haven’t embarked beyond a hug, heated as it feels to him, at the threshold of a romantic rooftop rendezvous- finally _his_.

He dare not dream, however, hope nonetheless flusters his senses.

Neither of you hastens to separate, the silent shrouding seconds stretch on in pure contentment.

The grumbling intrusion of your stomach, your stupid hunger-pitted stomach, the very same stomach ticklishly alive in a seraphim-induced swarm of butterflies in frenzied flight, breaks the enchantment.

“Sorry.” Leaning away from the angel, embarrassment deepens the pink flush of your face.

“Don’t be.” Seizing full advantage of the new vantage point of nearness, he brings a hand up to cradle the column of your throat and runs the rough pad of his thumb along the angle of your jaw as he memorizes every freckle and minute furrow upon your face, the glinting of the gaze fixed fondly on him as if he mattered more than anything in existence, and the trembling of lip where he concludes the caress and his careful study.

Self-conscious at the desire occurring to him then to steal a kiss from those petals pliantly parting under the intensity of his stare to hint at their willingness to seal with his own, his focus flicks upward to your eyes.

A soft sigh exhales through your nose - a subtle escape of regret that he did not yield to his obvious yearning, and remorse also that you failed to act on it when he didn’t and Chuck only knows if it took him this long to ask you on a date, how long it will be before you get a taste of actual Heaven. The boisterous growled demands of your famished belly again foul the romantic ambiance; you can’t help but cast him a glance coiled in unspoken anxiety of apology.

“That’s starting to sound pretty serious, perhaps we should eat.” Blues chuckling in creased amusement at your corporally insistent hunger, tender touch gliding to the divot dipped apex just above where your low back blooms into the roundness of a denim-supported bottom, he urges you, warmly brushing the sliver of skin exposed between your shirt and waist, to spin and shuffle off to the waiting blanket.

Moving the picnic basket into reach as you both sit, it’s he who wants to apologize for the humble pair of parchment and ribbon wrapped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches tucked therein; two, stuffed with potato chips – a Winchester family secret passed down from his dad Dean taught him to add crunchy texture and salt to cut the soggy amalgamation of sticky bread - to avert the awkwardness of asking you to eat alone.

“You made these?” you ask, watching glittery-eyed as he unpacks the picnic contents.

“Yes-” he admits, passing you one on a plate- “but they’re just PB&J.”

_Just_ PB&J for all the defeat damping his tone, he may as well have told you they were just his heart on his sleeve waiting to be trounced. “Thank you.” You pluck at the neatly tied bow on top to free what to you, because it was made especially for you by his hands and the best he has to offer when it comes to cooking, is an absolute feast.

“They’re perfect.” You lay a palm to his knee and squeeze until he trains his attention from popping the cork on the bottle of bubbly he hopes makes up for, or at least numbs your notice, of his lack of culinary acumen, to your glossy gaze. “Everything is perfect, Cas.”

That reassurance relaxes the tenseness casting shadows onto his confidence and his countenance enough to soothe a smile back into the camber of his mouth. “I’m glad. _Very_ glad you said ‘Yes’ even though I wasn’t clear about this being a date.”

“Nevermind that-” you tease, echoing his earlier words- “I was always going to say ‘Yes.’”

His smile broadens; distracted by you and the joy expanding outward from the center of his being with every beat of his vessel’s heart in your presence, and never having poured champagne to gain an understanding of the rapid expansion of its effervescence, he overfills both flutes.

Giggling, you eagerly accept the brimming glass and clink it against the one held in his alcohol-wetted fingertips. “To us,” you toast.

“To us,” he repeats; a heaviness of emotion deepens his voice almost to a whisper. His eyes follow as you bring the champagne to your beaming lips to sip.

It’s not the first time - nor will it be the last time tonight, as you nestle nearer and nearer beneath the lights and stars in the cooling midnight air chatting about nothing and everything and sometimes saying naught at all and simply enjoying the sensation of being together - that the sea blue swirl of his longing gaze kisses the sweet pout of your lips, wondering at the signs – sentiments quietly spoken and movements molded by emotion - of love and acceptance surrendering themselves there to him.

And yet, perhaps his history of failures proving paralytic in affront to the proofs of your affection, Dean’s magnanimously donated mouthwash moreover not providing the minty liquid courage he needed, he hesitates to close the distance to claim a heart already his.


	5. Part 5: A kiss, and all was said.

Winding his way along the hall to your bedroom, Castiel clutches you tenderly to his heart; the mouse-like caution comprising his movements and slowness of momentum are measures meant not to wake you, and maybe too, to stretch an incredible night spent in your presence as near the endless reaches of eternity as possible.

Seraphim strengthened arms effortlessly cradle the weight of the sleeping body wrapped in a trench coat chivalrously shed and proffered hours ago at the first sign of a shiver to preserve your warmth on the rooftop as you lay side by side watching the steady march of stars across the sky until you succumbed to slumber and dawn declared her reign in a pale glow of gold on the horizon and dimmed those sparkling pinpricks of light one by one with the promise of a new day.

The physicality of carrying you presents no challenge to his celestial vigor; much greater is the emotional burden of a love - its ethereally enumerated existence not yet corporeally christened into worldly life with a kiss - his heart happily bears.

Stopping outside your bedroom door, he looks down at your serenity slackened features; in perceiving your peace and realizing his part in it, a smile softens his stare. He shifts the balance of your frame, bending his knees slightly to lean backward in order to prevent you slipping from his grasp as he fumbles to locate the knob. Twisting the cool roundness of metal cupped in his palm, he pushes the unlatched wooden ingress open with a foot.

The barrier betrays his stealth; a squeal of sticky hinges hews the quietude. 

You stir, wakening from a dream of rocking in a hammock - a hot breath of breeze swathing your limbs where you rested beneath an infinitely blue summer sky - into an even better reality snugly suspended in an angel’s embrace, the fondness-filled blue depths of his regard doting above you.

“I was trying not to wake you,” he says, head cutely cocking in contrition.

“S’okay-” Slipping a hand up to circle his neck, nuzzling the stippled angle of his jawline, you yawn and warmly murmur across the prickly skin there- “Gives me a chance to say goodnight.”

A half-smile springs sideways to dimple his cheek. “It’s morning.”

“Oh-” You take his word for it on account of the bunker’s artificial light and lack of windows and feel maybe you should apologize for a mortal need for sleep arising in affront to his carefully planned evening of romance. You don’t remember falling asleep, but you do remember wishing on a shooting star that he’d go ahead and kiss you already. The thought flirts matched amusement into your aspect. “Then I guess it’s a good morning.”

“Yes, yes it is,” he avows, clarifying as to its goodness lest you misunderstand his meaning. “Good, I mean. Although it’s also morning, but I said that already.”

A light laugh courses through you and trembles your throat.

It tickles his determination to demonstrate his devotion where it emerges along with your bitten-lip grin, although it also straps his resolve to do so in shyness.

“I’m babbling,” he humbly berates his nervousness-induced behavior aloud.

“No you’re not-”

He quirks a brow contending as to the contrary.

“ _Well_ , maybe a little,” you concede. “But it’s adorable. And I’m glad we feel the same. About the goodness of it … and, you know-” you pause, peering into his face for confirmation- “of _us_.”

Literally disarmed by delight, his grip loosens and he lets you slip to the floor, leaving an arm wound around you and holding you to his torso for support as gravity claims your feet. Suddenly unsure of where to aim his eyes or what to do with his hands now that they aren’t occupied with carrying you, he focuses on replacing a fold of coat fabric where it falls from your shoulder.

“Cas?” You catch at his fidgeting fingers, calming them with the casing of your own and pressing the captured fist to the center of your chest.

“Hmm?” he answers in a hum, gaze flicking to the shadow of his name lingering invitingly on your lips.

Rising upward on your toes to nudge your nose to his cheek, you whisper into the tremulous twitch of lips thrilled by your nearness and the hints of sweetness teasing where your breath brushes his mouth. “I’m not wrong, am I?” Because you’ve known him long enough – _loved_ him long enough without knowing yourself until last night that the sentiment might be reciprocated - to understand how his self-doubt functions when it comes to prioritizing his wants and needs over those of the people he cares about, you add so there’s nothing left of which to remain uncertain, “About us.”

The physical distance is negligible, yet the leap of faith to close it - not faith in you, but in himself - requires the frenzied energy bound up in the entirety of his angelic heart to land. Any uncertainties, the fears of failure, all of Creation save you fade away for him the moment your lips finally merge. A sigh speaks for him, saying in a single contented sound stifled by the passion of a kiss neither of you is willing to separate from first that, _‘No, you’re not wrong, nothing that feels this right could be wrong.’_

When you do disconnect - blissfully light-headed and moving as little as possible apart partially on account of him having pinned you to the tiled wall - Castiel, eager for what comes next, coasts his affectionate attention downward to the column of your neck where he queries with gravelly resonant words, scrapes of teeth, and sweeps of tongue the spot where your adrenaline-amped pulse beats wildly for him just beneath a particularly sensitive patch of skin. “When can I take you out again?”

Squirming, still breathless and panting, unable to articulate anything intelligible between the involuntary mewls of pleasure elicited by his mouth’s ministrations, you instead pray, _‘Now. Now is good.’_

It’s what he hoped you’d say.


End file.
